Submissions by JohnFeddeler
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
My poems are blue collar; they work hard.
LOVE POEM
Published
24th Jul 2017 6:33pm
24th Jul 2017 6:33pm
fade out lines
we made a dangerous kinda love, a pagan dance,
back alley romance, with switchblades.
it’s the oldest alibi in the book: a woman gives her sex to a man,
& if he won’t cuddle after, she calls it rape.
she comes on like that, her hair down & tangled. every place she
touches me ignites like a solar flare, as if she had lightning in her
fingers. thunder in the fragments of her heart.
she could drive the Cadillac to the Last Chance saloon,
I’ll ride in the back with Phoebe Killdeer.
I could lay down baby blue lyrics by the...
back alley romance, with switchblades.
it’s the oldest alibi in the book: a woman gives her sex to a man,
& if he won’t cuddle after, she calls it rape.
she comes on like that, her hair down & tangled. every place she
touches me ignites like a solar flare, as if she had lightning in her
fingers. thunder in the fragments of her heart.
she could drive the Cadillac to the Last Chance saloon,
I’ll ride in the back with Phoebe Killdeer.
I could lay down baby blue lyrics by the...
1288 reads
12 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
21st Jul 2017 4:34am
21st Jul 2017 4:34am
rattle
deeper than the underground. darker than noir.
that’s where we bury love when it’s danced the last dance.
the stranger in the story is nameless. just another no one stranded
in the wind. rider on the storm. I could’ve sketched her sleepy
silhouette in the moonlight.
she was the finality of the argent night;
the finish.
there was no place to go except a vintage motel, silent as a ghost ship.
we were the only stowaways. we checked in without baggage. hearts
broken long ago over the brittle years & hard roads, & the pieces ...
that’s where we bury love when it’s danced the last dance.
the stranger in the story is nameless. just another no one stranded
in the wind. rider on the storm. I could’ve sketched her sleepy
silhouette in the moonlight.
she was the finality of the argent night;
the finish.
there was no place to go except a vintage motel, silent as a ghost ship.
we were the only stowaways. we checked in without baggage. hearts
broken long ago over the brittle years & hard roads, & the pieces ...
1657 reads
11 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
18th Jul 2017 5:12am
18th Jul 2017 5:12am
killeress
she steals the nights & locks them in a steamer trunk, to be filled
with a lover when he comes, & the wild, wayward dance of amour.
but night is ethereal, unkeepable except in memories. they evaporate.
she reads my history in the scars on my face, & lays it out like a
bitter memorial.
‘these things I know: you were a soldier & they sent you to a bad place.
in the bunker, you pondered as the mortars exploded. you smoked
your cigarettes & wondered how it would feel to kill a man. you
thought you were afraid; you don’t...
with a lover when he comes, & the wild, wayward dance of amour.
but night is ethereal, unkeepable except in memories. they evaporate.
she reads my history in the scars on my face, & lays it out like a
bitter memorial.
‘these things I know: you were a soldier & they sent you to a bad place.
in the bunker, you pondered as the mortars exploded. you smoked
your cigarettes & wondered how it would feel to kill a man. you
thought you were afraid; you don’t...
1548 reads
11 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
16th Jul 2017 3:40am
16th Jul 2017 3:40am
a poem of no logic or profound scholastics
I wish I could make her run in the sunlight.
come down, lonely cloud.
come down, stars who remember
the night they were born, come down.
and the vessel full of wise men
from a distant world, who wonder when
we will eliminate ourselves;
we know you’re there. come down.
and all the birds conversing
on telephone wires, come down.
come down.
(Art: Alberto Reyes)
come down, lonely cloud.
come down, stars who remember
the night they were born, come down.
and the vessel full of wise men
from a distant world, who wonder when
we will eliminate ourselves;
we know you’re there. come down.
and all the birds conversing
on telephone wires, come down.
come down.
(Art: Alberto Reyes)
1277 reads
10 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
13th Jul 2017 12:30pm
13th Jul 2017 12:30pm
cry the river
it is the weeping of angels that makes the rain. ominous black horses
stampede across the sky, cumbersome as clouds, ridden by cavillous
Valkyrie, as they lament the tears of their virginal lovers. their
heartbeats are the fury of thunder, echoing, & javelins of lightning are
manifested in the flash of their eyes.
ride down the tempest. even in this broken, desolate city, the storm can
be that much a poem. I harbor in the loneliness of a bleak café. the
waitress is serene in her reverie, far away from here, but she keeps my
coffee warmed...
stampede across the sky, cumbersome as clouds, ridden by cavillous
Valkyrie, as they lament the tears of their virginal lovers. their
heartbeats are the fury of thunder, echoing, & javelins of lightning are
manifested in the flash of their eyes.
ride down the tempest. even in this broken, desolate city, the storm can
be that much a poem. I harbor in the loneliness of a bleak café. the
waitress is serene in her reverie, far away from here, but she keeps my
coffee warmed...
#loneliness
#rain
1729 reads
15 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
8th Jul 2017 5:38am
8th Jul 2017 5:38am
un amour pour le noir
dim lights & soft music. the dames try to sell me the proposition of
romantic liaisons designed just that way. but I stack my jukebox
with darkwave vinyl. & everything about a doll is done better in the
dark. she’s the right shade of pretty when she blows out the candle.
I’ve listened to a sultry singer called Somegirl. insatiable drum machines
hammer the air around her, splitting infinities like anechoic shrapnel, as
she follows traces to nowhere. she’s loved once too many, but she knows
in her heart she don’t need nobody. (sure it’s bad...
romantic liaisons designed just that way. but I stack my jukebox
with darkwave vinyl. & everything about a doll is done better in the
dark. she’s the right shade of pretty when she blows out the candle.
I’ve listened to a sultry singer called Somegirl. insatiable drum machines
hammer the air around her, splitting infinities like anechoic shrapnel, as
she follows traces to nowhere. she’s loved once too many, but she knows
in her heart she don’t need nobody. (sure it’s bad...
1537 reads
9 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
3rd Jul 2017 4:51am
3rd Jul 2017 4:51am
violin road harlot
she doesn’t know the sex crimes of an older man.
too old for her, but it’s what she wants.
her face is on my pillow
her voice is in the old love songs
should have kept my heart incarcerated
in its oubliette, where it belongs.
I was at war before she was born, stealing an hour from the scourged
field to spend it with a whore. I’d get drunk on the oleander in her hair,
nerium whiskey, as she carried me between her long, industrious legs
to a garden of nefarious perversion. gladly beyond: because I don’t
know where I am when I’m...
too old for her, but it’s what she wants.
her face is on my pillow
her voice is in the old love songs
should have kept my heart incarcerated
in its oubliette, where it belongs.
I was at war before she was born, stealing an hour from the scourged
field to spend it with a whore. I’d get drunk on the oleander in her hair,
nerium whiskey, as she carried me between her long, industrious legs
to a garden of nefarious perversion. gladly beyond: because I don’t
know where I am when I’m...
1444 reads
12 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
1st Jul 2017 4:03am
1st Jul 2017 4:03am
noir de nuit
she cries more from the abstractive painting on a jitney than she does
from the meditative mechanics of darkwave; aberrant melodies thick
as the scars on the curator’s face.
valorous woman, unarmored as women tend to be, who learned
the pristine art of weeping on the killing fields of conflagrant love,
rapturous lovers.
maybe she’s not a lonely orphan, solitary & sleepy-eyed in her bed
chamber. maybe she’s the female vocalist (Gina; Lucy or Mina) on a
solemn stage of indigo light, surrounded by the programmed cacophony
of...
from the meditative mechanics of darkwave; aberrant melodies thick
as the scars on the curator’s face.
valorous woman, unarmored as women tend to be, who learned
the pristine art of weeping on the killing fields of conflagrant love,
rapturous lovers.
maybe she’s not a lonely orphan, solitary & sleepy-eyed in her bed
chamber. maybe she’s the female vocalist (Gina; Lucy or Mina) on a
solemn stage of indigo light, surrounded by the programmed cacophony
of...
1482 reads
6 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
27th Jun 2017 12:10pm
27th Jun 2017 12:10pm
hon
(in Czech, hon means ‘hunt, chase’; in Faroese, it means ‘she’)
‘I don’t know if I’ve ever been beautiful.’
she speaks a mundane line that becomes lyrical, then she sleeps.
I engrave it in my sordid tales, that are far, far from poetry. yet in
my criminal perversions, I call them love poems.
we chase the bitter account of unwritten verse as we chase love.
outside her window, the storm fulminates. she reasons that her
uncaptured poem must be hidden in the stars, beyond the mighty
thunder & the noble lightning.
...
‘I don’t know if I’ve ever been beautiful.’
she speaks a mundane line that becomes lyrical, then she sleeps.
I engrave it in my sordid tales, that are far, far from poetry. yet in
my criminal perversions, I call them love poems.
we chase the bitter account of unwritten verse as we chase love.
outside her window, the storm fulminates. she reasons that her
uncaptured poem must be hidden in the stars, beyond the mighty
thunder & the noble lightning.
...
1798 reads
16 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
22nd Jun 2017 4:39pm
22nd Jun 2017 4:39pm
fall the rain
can fall the rain?
can rage the trees, that give a hospice
to every weary, wounded bird?
can call the birds by name?
was every road so cobbled & split
was every cloud a bruise upon the sky
was every grassy field parched & withered
was every hill so high
a soldier’s helmet is a crown of thorns
his aches, a spear thrust in his side
full of a minstrel that merely mourns
full of sorrow, but never cried
dismantle the cannon that pocks the land
rip the flag that takes no mends
a thousand miles begins a...
can rage the trees, that give a hospice
to every weary, wounded bird?
can call the birds by name?
was every road so cobbled & split
was every cloud a bruise upon the sky
was every grassy field parched & withered
was every hill so high
a soldier’s helmet is a crown of thorns
his aches, a spear thrust in his side
full of a minstrel that merely mourns
full of sorrow, but never cried
dismantle the cannon that pocks the land
rip the flag that takes no mends
a thousand miles begins a...
1777 reads
8 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
20th Jun 2017 6:58pm
20th Jun 2017 6:58pm
indeliberate moon
what is the moon except a big circle in the sky
it glows merely as a reflection of the sun’s fire
which burns thru the long colorless nights
I could record the distance in orbital rotations
or kilometers, but that would not be poetry
a woman, thus, is many characters away from these
recherché reveries, but in a poem, in my poem
she is the object of drifting, carnal despondence
my nights are long, and she
(who has a name, a name I’ve given her)
comes to be kissed, deeply, as the French ordained
but a kiss is...
it glows merely as a reflection of the sun’s fire
which burns thru the long colorless nights
I could record the distance in orbital rotations
or kilometers, but that would not be poetry
a woman, thus, is many characters away from these
recherché reveries, but in a poem, in my poem
she is the object of drifting, carnal despondence
my nights are long, and she
(who has a name, a name I’ve given her)
comes to be kissed, deeply, as the French ordained
but a kiss is...
1709 reads
7 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by JohnFeddeler
